


The Old Ballgame

by StarMaamMke



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Baseball, F/M, Gen, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, bad news bears inspired, hopper and steve coach little league, hopper as walter matthau, kids sports movies inspired, mild to medium angst in places, mostly fun, ships galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarMaamMke/pseuds/StarMaamMke
Summary: Steve Harrington and Jim Hopper are constantly at odds. Harrington just wants to have a good time and Hopper just wants to bust teen parties and be a general killjoy. Through a bizarre set of circumstances that has nothing whatsoever to do with Harrington being a spiteful, the two of them are forced to put together a scrappy little league team.Will they be able to shape their band of misfits into a first-rate team? Or will they eventually kill each other?





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to follow me on tumblr!  
> @starmaammke  
> or follow my Stranger Things fanfiction sideblog!  
> @strangerthingsfics
> 
> I hope you enjoy my little attempt at making the wait for Season Two more bearable. This is the first time that I've branched out beyond my usual Jopper angst. Please don't hate me for butchering the other beloved characters in this fandom. It's mostly tongue-in-cheek.

**Hawkins, Indiana**

**Early April 1985**

**Steve**

 

“Your parties always get busted. I don’t know why you even try anymore,” Nancy Wheeler sighed before taking a sip from a can of Diet Coke. There were murmurs of agreement from every person at the table, barely audibly above the din in the Hawkins High School cafeteria.

 

Her lunch table was a bit of a motley crew nowadays. Tommy and Carol had drifted away from Harrington after the cinema incident almost two years ago, and had been replaced by Lucas Sinclair’s older sister Sasha and her boyfriend, Freddy. Also Jonathan Byers. All of them, save for Nancy were members of Jonathan’s newly formed Elvis Costello cover band, This Year’s Model.

 

“Also, no one really comes to your parties now you’re associating with poors, weirdos and black kids,” Sasha added with an impish grin.

 

Steve shrugged and put an arm around Nancy’s shoulder. “Well, that’s just not true. They don’t come to the parties because that sadistic pig, Hopper, keeps on me like white on rice and breaks them up the second the first beer gets cracked. Jackass either has supersonic hearing or he’s on my dad’s private payroll.” He shot an annoyed glance at Jonathan who was taking a swig from a can of root beer. “I thought your mom removed that stick from his ass while they were in bed together.”

 

Jonathan slammed his can of soda onto the table, choking and sputtering. His face was red by the time he stopped coughing and there was real venom in the contemptuous glare he gave Steve. “They aren’t dating; she’s with that Bob guy from Radio Shack. Also, that’s my mom, so watch your mouth.”

 

“Well, your mom’s hot so I doubt that’s the worst thing someone’s said about her in that regard.”

 

Steve was rewarded with a sharp blow to his free arm, one he unsuccessfully dodged by sliding sideways in his seat, knocking Nancy from hers and to the ground in the process.

 

“You assholes!” Sasha chided, moving to assist Nancy to her feet as Freddy guffawed, Steve threw out apologies and Jonathan blushed.

 

“Thanks, Sash. You’re a real gentleman,” Nancy cooed sarcastically as she rolled her eyes and took a seat on the opposite side of the table of Jonathan and Steve. She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered at the contrite boys.

 

Steve cleared his throat and ran a hand through his shaggy, light-brown hair. “Anyway, I think it would be a great idea to have a few people over and show off the new sound. Kind of like a soft open before the battle of the bands. Maybe shake up the competition a little bit.”

 

“I like that,” Jonathan replied softly, not looking up from the small mashed potato sculpture he was shaping with his fork. “We’ve got a good sound and a girl drummer. The other bands can’t even get girls to their gigs.”

 

“Did you say a ‘girl’ drummer or a ‘good’ drummer? Because it should have been ‘good’ and I’m actually excellent, thanks.” Sasha’s face was pulled into a look of annoyed severeness that matched Nancy’s. Jonathan looked up in time to catch their expressions and his eyes immediately widened.

 

“You know what I mean; it’s unique. We’re unique. That has got to mean something.”

 

“The last band that won last year just played that Foghat song. Twice. This is Indiana not SoHo.” Freddy liked to bring up New York City a lot, and the fact that he had grown up there. It was a fact that fascinated Jonathan, Nancy and Sasha but annoyed Steve to no end. He rolled his eyes to express his feelings on the subject. Freddy wasn’t even that good of a bass player and his safety pins and spiky hair looked stupid. There was no way he had opened for The Clash, no matter how much smoke he blew up Jonathan’s ass. Freddy and Jonathan and their weird music and sudden friendship.

 

“Well, we’ll knock their socks off anyway. I’ll throw the party on Good Friday. It’s coming up fast.”

 

**Jim**

 

 

Jim Hopper was feeling murderous. It was one of those rare stretches of road in which his regular job as Chief intersected with his unpaid internship with Hawkins Lab in a way that made rest and sleep damn near impossible. Coffee wasn’t working anymore. He was helplessly immune to caffeine and the diet pills he pinched from Flo’s desk were dwindling. He couldn’t risk taking any more without raising suspicion. He was feeling every bit of his 41 years and then some.

Busting teen parties cheered him up considerably. There was little else to do in Hawkins. Any patrolling that was on the up-and -yielded nothing but a sleepy population content to stay in their own lane. No robberies, no domestic disputes. Even his side job was dull, not what it had been when he had started it the year previously. Clean up duty was very much what it sounded like. Scouting locations that potentially contained gates, check for activity, and scrubbing the area of anything suspicious.

 

But teenagers? They were drawn to illicit parties like a moth to a flame. Busting them up wasn’t as exciting as say closing in on a hive of meth dealers (an occasion that came up every so often in his days on the Indianapolis beat), but it beat paperwork and mopping up interdimensional shit by a long shot.

 

Steve Harrington was the easiest target of all time. Popular and a social butterfly to boot. Not to mention, too stupid to move his party locations away from his parents’ house. The lure of a pool, a first rate sound system and Mr. Harrington’s excessively stocked personal bar must have just been too much.

 

 _Fields are for plebs,_ the little punk had once told Jim when asked why he never choose a different place to hold his parties. Rich little shit. Thought he was so clever holding them on the weekdays and religious holidays. Jim was already set to patrol on Good Friday. It would be relaxing after the party Powell was throwing at his lake house for Thirsty Thursday. Booze and beignets. Jim thought he might be mellowing out a but when he realized he was most excited for the beignets. He’d never lose his taste for booze, but his womanizing days were beginning to feel like ashes in his mouth.

 

He wondered if Joyce Byers was invited to the party. It didn’t seem likely and if she was, he doubted she would even show up. He wondered why, when thinking on his romantic life, his thoughts often flew to her expressive amber eyes, her generous, unsmiling mouth and her petite frame. Why he felt an acrid pang of jealousy when he saw her around town on the arm of Bob Newby.

 

Beignets, Hop, focus on the beignets, he coached himself as he watched his knuckles go white while clutching the steering wheel. Busting Harrington’s party was going to be a nice distraction. He hoped it was a rager. Nothing would give him more pleasure than watching that rich little twerp picking up garbage on the highway as part of community service.

 

It was going to be a long week, now that he knew what next Friday would bring. In the meanwhile, Joyce needed a new water jacket for her firebox, and Newby’s specialty was electronics. It gave Jim a warm feeling of satisfaction, knowing that Saint Bob wasn’t perfect at everything. Jim was still needed. Still useful, and he was still a complete masochist when it came to that woman and her little family. At least he was useful to someone, now that the kid was gone.

 

That one hurt. Not a hurt like losing Sarah, but a loss nonetheless.

The girl -El, Eleven, Jane, whatever she was called nowadays - had been found the previous Halloween. After a long ordeal in which lives were very nearly lost and new, more dangerous creatures from that place were discovered and defeated, Jim took her in.

 

The Ives family had been notified, of course; Aunt Becky had demurred when offered the responsibility. Terry was enough of a burden. Bringing El Jane to the Ives home to meet her mother for the first time had not performed any sort of miracle. The woman still sat and stared at nothing. So, Jim cleaned out the spare room at his trailer.

 

It had been strange, having a child in a home that was decidedly a bachelor pad. Jim, through years of dissipation and alcoholism, had quite forgotten how to be a parent, and he never had gotten the opportunity to experience trying to keep a pre-teen alive in the strictest sense. It took him a full month to put his foot down on her diet of Eggo waffles and other junk. Joyce and Karen interceded and began writing his grocery lists for him, along with providing certain feminine products when the time came.

 

It’s inexcusable to put one child in the place of another like a band-aid, and absolutely nothing would ever replace Sarah in Jim’s heart, but having El around in those short months turned that persistent and keen sting into a dull ache. She didn’t blossom under his care, per se, but she did begin to speak her mind and show interests other than Mike Wheeler and frozen breakfast foods.

 

She was pretty fair at softball, a sport Jim introduced to her on an unseasonably warm day in early December. They used old beer bottles as bases, and his old glove nearly weighed her reedy arm down, but she caught on fast. Wicked throwing arm. It had been a proud moment for him. Proud and bittersweet. He never thought he’d be teaching sports to a child, not ever.

 

El had been overjoyed at her triumph, and the lights in her eyes stirred something distinctly paternal in Jim. She talked about how she could not wait to watch Ryne Sandberg play and the Cubs play. That made Jim die a little inside because he was a Cardinals fan, but he didn’t let on. If she wanted him to fly awful Chicago’s terrible banner, he would. If it pleased her.

 

Then, Terry died. The burden, which had been so insurmountable a few short months before now seemed to be the only that would help Becky Ives move on from her loss. Jim was rendered momentarily speechless by the request, but he knew he had no legal hold on the strange little girl who had become such a fixed point in his life.

 

So he let her go. What else could he do? She wasn’t his. She never had been.

 

The beignets, think about the beignets. He couldn’t think about the beignets, not when Joyce’s long driveway stretched out before him, her little one-level house standing out like a shabby oasis. He hated the way it felt like home when it wasn’t. Not for him. Never for him.

 

**Joyce**

Joyce cringed as the inexpert guitar stylings of Sid Vicious flooded through her kitchen. She slammed the refrigerator door and put her hands over her ears in a theatrical motion and shook her head at Jonathan and Will, who were busy putting chemicals and hot water into a mop bucket at the kitchen sink.

 

“I can’t do Spring cleaning to this, I just can’t!”

 

Jonathan smirked and turned off the tap. “It’s not that bad, Mom. Right, Will?”

 

“It’s Punk, Mom,” Will offered, helpfully. “And you told Jonathan he gets to pick the spring cleaning music this year.”

 

Joyce shrugged and threw up her hands. “Okay, but do you have any music that is actual music on that tape? What about that band you’re in? Do you have any Elvis Presley?”

 

Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Costello, Mom. And no. We’re trying to not listen to his stuff so much. That way we’re putting our own spin on his material without being too influenced by the original.”

 

Joyce pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded slowly. “Right. I see. Can he play more than a G-chord?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Then why are we listening to this crap?” Both of her boys exchanged glances and shrugged. She scoffed, rolled her eyes, and shook her head. “Well, I’m vetoing the Spring music.”

“What?! Mom, that’s not fair!” Will protested vehemently.

 

Jonathan shrugged. “Okay, fine. Put on the radio. There’s nothing on it anyway.” The _see if I care_ was implied and she could see the beginnings of a sulk in his thin, slouching shoulders.

 

“Nothing on the radio? I love listening to the radio!” Joyce retorted with an exaggeratedly outraged tone. She waltzed over to the sink and leaned forward towards the little radio that sat on the windowsill, switching modes with a flourish of her pointer finger. The room filled with a perky synth-beat and the youthful, optimistic voice of Whitney Houston.

 

“Mom, no…” Jonathan groaned. Joyce put her hands in the air and began to swing her hips and head from side-to-side as she sang along to the lyrics.

 

_There's a boy I know, he's the one I dream of_

_Looks into my eyes, takes me to the clouds above_

_Ooh I lose control, can't seem to get enough_

_When I wake from dreaming, tell me is it really love_

 

“Mom, that’s so embarrassing!” Will cried, covering his face and shaking his head as she shimmied over to him, put her hands on his shoulders and tried to get him to dance along. Her singing only increased in volume in the face of protest.

 

_How will I know (Don't trust your feelings)_

_How will I know_

_How will I know (Love can be deceiving)_

_How will I know_

_How will I know if he really loves me_

_I say a prayer with every heartbeat_

 

“Am I interrupting something?” A voice from the door to the mudroom inquired. Joyce gasped aloud and spun to see Chief Jim Hopper darkening the doorframe with his solid presence. He clutched a toolbox in one hand and a lunchbox in the other. His blue eyes were twinkling with delight and his normally severe mouth was frozen in a grin that threatened to give way to raucous laughter.

 

“No. Mom’s just being weird, Chief. She can do that any time,” Jonathan explained, one corner of his lips curled in a mischievous smirk. Will was doubled over in uncontrollable giggles. Joyce wanted very much to sink into the floor and never be seen again. Her entire face felt as though it was engulfed in flames.

 

“Oh. Okay. Well, Joyce, once the dance party is over, I could use a pair of small hands in the backyard.”

 

“I can help you, Chief!” Will chirped.

 

Joyce shook her head with a frown. The heat in her cheeks was beginning to abate somewhat. “No, thank you, baby. That firebox is old and dangerous. If anyone is going to get tetanus today, it’s going to be me.” She put an arm around her youngest boy, drew him close and kissed the top of his head. He was about two inches taller than her, so she had to strain a bit, which gave her a sour little pang in her stomach. “Anyway, you promised me that the bathroom was going to be your responsibility; go scrub a toilet.”

 

Just as Joyce was about to follow Jim outside, Jonathan spoke:

 

“Oh, hey. Before I forget, Steve and Nancy invited me for an overnight study session this Friday. Is it okay that I go?”

 

Joyce turned and gave her oldest a confused look. She looked up at Jim. His expression was unreadable, but there was an unmistakable squint of disapproval in his blue eyes. Something was up.

 

“Steve Harrington invited you over to study?”

 

Jonathan grew defensive. “Yeah? He does study, you know. He’s not an idiot.”

 

“Copies off of that Wheeler girl, no doubt,” Jim scoffed.

 

“Hey, no one asked you,” the boy sneered.

 

Joyce’s eyes widened as she felt the energy in the room take a hostile turn. “Whoa, whoa, whoa; everyone calm down! Jonathan, don’t talk to Hop like that.” She turned to Jim and gave him her best ‘what the fuck?’ look. “Hop, that’s not a very nice thing to say. Steve is Jonathan’s friend.”

 

“Sorry,” Jim muttered, his eyes on the floor.

 

“Anyway, aren’t Steve’s parents out of town this week?”

 

“Always,” Jonathan replied with a shrug.

 

Joyce sighed. “I don’t like that.”

 

“It’s Good Friday, Mom. No one is going to be in the mood to do keg stands.”

 

Joyce crossed her arms over her chest. “Who said anything about keg stands? How do you know about keg stands?”

 

She flinched a little when Jim put his hand on her shoulder. “He graduates High School in May, Joycie; when did we know about keg stands?” his voice was soft with nostalgia and she felt the warmth in her body return at the sound of her nickname.

 

“I swear to god, if there’s a party-...”

 

“There won’t be. It’s just homework. Why would I bring it up in front of the Chief of Police if we were going to be playing Strip Beer Pong by the pool?” Jonathan asked, the smirk widening into a grin.

 

“STRIP BEER-...”

 

“He’s winding you up, Joyce. That’s not a real game. Come on.” Jim moved his hand to the middle of her back and led her away from the kitchen.

 

“So that’s a yes?” she heard Jonathan shout after her.

 

Joyce stepped into the backyard and looked up at Jim. “It’s going to be a party, isn’t it?”

 

“Probably. It’s on my radar.”

 

She heaved a frustrated sigh. “I know it’s not ethical but-...”

 

“I’ll try my hardest to not notice your kid. No promises though.”

 

“Just give him time to run into the woods, Hop. He’s got a scholarship to NYU to worry about.”

 

“Anything for you, darlin’.”

 

Joyce felt flustered by Jim’s presence for a third time. She often wondered why he made no move after Will returned. She had felt grateful enough in those days to do absolutely anything for him. Anything. She had even toyed with the idea of expressing the sentiment, but had been bogged down with work and reporters and getting therapy for her children and for herself. Their simply had not been time, and Jim hadn’t given her any indication that he wanted to make such a leap either.

 

Then Bob arrived. Safe, dependable Bob who wore his heart on his sleeve. Shy though; he had been in town for a year before he showed up at the General Store with a bouquet of flowers and stammered his way through a lukewarm declaration. Joyce had been touched, and lonely, and she accepted.

 

The boys liked Bob and he had shown a quiet sort of courage the previous Fall when the world nearly came crashing down on everyone. He took everything in stride, even though he wasn’t accustomed to government conspiracies and real life monsters. But who was, really? He was a rock.

 

But he wasn’t Jim, a fact that taunted Joyce from time to time. Sad, strong, Jim. Handsome in an irresistibly broken way, and intrinsically tied to Joyce through childhood, adolescence, past love and persistent danger. He understood grief and loss, understood what it was like to be born under a bad star.

 

Bob’s lovesick glances had nothing on the way she sometimes caught Jim studying her. That thirsty, devouring stare that cut to her core. But that was irrelevant. She was with Bob. She and Jim had missed their boat, as they always seemed to do. There were worse things to be than adored by a good man.

 

**Jonathan**

 

“It’s a party, isn’t it?” Will asked as he rifled through the cabinet under the sink for rubber gloves. Their mom and the chief were safely outside and out of earshot.

 

“It’s for the band. We’re testing out our sound before the battle,” Jonathan replied, gently setting the mop bucket down on the ground. He smiled at his brother as the younger boy’s face lit up with encouraging enthusiasm.

 

“Cool! Can I go?”

 

Jonathan shook his head. “There’s probably going to be booze and stuff there. It’s a Harrington party. You’re better off drinking Mountain Dew and slaying dragons in Mike Wheeler’s basement.”

 

Will wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, I guess. Mike’s just been real mopey since El got sent to her aunt’s. They’re barely seven miles out of town, I don’t know why she couldn’t just drive El to Hawkins for school.”

 

Jonathan scoffed. “That kid is too young to walk around like someone shot his dog. There are other girls.”

 

Will located the gloves and put them on his hands. “Yeah, but this one can kill people with her mind.”

 

“Sure, but you dummies are too young to worry about dating. You have your whole lives ahead of you.” Jonathan felt awkward lecturing Will on relationships, especially when his dating experience amounted to precisely zilch. There had been a bit of a spark between him and Nancy, but that had been ages ago, and sometimes Jonathan thought he might have dreamed it.

 

Currently, he found himself appreciating that Nancy was a loyal and good friend who just happened to be an attractive young woman. There was no yearning, no dizzy feeling when she was around, except (curiously) when Steve was in the room. Jonathan thought that perhaps it was just a little bit of residual jealousy. Except that the feeling did not leave when Nancy did.

 

Jonathan tried not to dwell on those things. Certainly not in quiet moments when he should be reflecting on ways to improve the sound of their band. Was Steve flat or pitchy on certain songs? Should they dig deeper in the catalogue to find something more suitable for his voice? Did his eyes linger on Jonathan during his rendition of “Beyond Belief”? Was Steve singing directly to Jonathan when he ought to be singing to the audience?

 

Jonathan tried not to dwell on Steve Harrington at all. He really tried.

 

“You don’t have to worry about me worrying about dating. I’m just saying Mike is sad and it’s making things not fun.”

 

Jonathan nodded with a sad smile. “He’ll come around. Just give him time.”

 

“Yeah. Maybe she’ll come around this Summer.”

 

“Yeah.”


	2. In Which the Ball Gets Rolling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild Homophobia

**Becky Ives**

 

“Jane, what’s wrong?” Becky Ives inquired as the front door of flew open and a flurry of teenage pique stormed through the living room and threw a heavy bookbag into a nearby armchair. 

 

Jane ‘El’ Ives stood in the middle of the floor with her back to Becky -- her thin shoulders heaving as she wrapped her arms about herself. She was a tense ball of rage, holding herself in a stance that always made Becky nervous. At least the lights weren’t flickering this time.

“My name is El. And it’s not fair.”

 

Becky placed her knitting to one side and stood from her perch on the antique rocking chair. She approached her niece, holding out one tentative hand. “What’s not fair, sweetheart?”

 

El slowly turned, breathing through her nose and exhaling through her mouth like her therapist and Becky had taught her to do. 

 

“I want to play softball this summer.”

 

Oh. Well that wasn’t as bad as Becky feared. “Well sure you do. What’s the problem?”

 

El shrugged and shook her head, her short cropped curls bouncing with the movement. “That mouthbreather coach says girls can’t join the summer teams.”

 

Becky frowned and felt a twist of disgust in her gut. Garland Brown was such a neanderthal. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Hop said Hawkins has coed teams.”

 

Hop and Hawkins again. Becky thought keeping the girl out of that town would help heal the gaping wound that festered in their family. Possibly make El a happy and well-adjusted child. It had been a miscalculation on Becky’s part. El was having a hard time making friends, and- due to Absalom Middle Schools lack of AP classes - was generally bored with the coursework she was given. There had been fights and incidences. While some things couldn’t be traced back to El, there were clues that pointed in that general direction. 

 

_ If we weren’t so close to the end of the year, we’d be considering expulsion,  _ the principal had announced with care. As if they were doing her a fucking favor, allowing a brilliant (and famous) little girl to rot away in their subpar school. 

 

_ Thank you. I hear your concerns, and will be considering other options for next Fall.  _

 

_ Now, don’t be so hasty, Miss Ives. Jane is an extraordinarily talented girl, and were it not for the behavioral issues, she’d be an asset to this school-... _

 

_ Wait just a minute; You want to expel her, but you don’t want her to leave?  _

_ We just want to explain the issues as they stand. Here are some pamphlets for mental health services offered nearby. Perhaps a summer-... _

_ This is for an institution. You want me to send her to a nuthouse for summer break? _

 

Becky had stormed out of the office before Mr. Grant could sputter out a reply. Later that afternoon, she had researched every private school in Indiana until she came upon one on the outskirts of Indianapolis. It seemed a perfect place for gifted individuals, and the tuition reflected its exceptional reputation. Thankfully the payout from the mess with Hawkins Lab would more than pay for at least four semesters. Becky was still waiting on delivering the news to her niece. 

 

“But we don’t live in Hawkins, Sweetheart. Maybe if I talk to Coach Brown-...”

 

“He won’t listen. It’s only seven miles away! Hop said any man who didn’t think a girl could play sports was just insecure and wasn’t worth knowing.”

 

Hop said, Hop says. El had come into the Ives household barely speaking a word. Now that she did speak, most of her sentences either started with ‘Mike’ or ‘Hop said’. Becky wasn’t complaining, it was nice to see her traumatized niece start to blossom and show personality and potential. She just wished that most of El’s opinions didn’t show such a strong leaning to that thrice-damned town. The private school talk would definitely have to wait. Compromises had to be made in order to keep the peace. Becky heaved a sigh and pulled El into a hug, which the girl begrudgingly returned.

 

“I will take a look at what sort of summer programs Hawkins has to offer.” She felt the small girl’s arms tighten around her waist and breathed an inward sigh of relief. Thank god, thank god, thank god.

 

“Okay,” El whispered against the crook of Becky’s neck.

 

“This doesn’t mean you get to go back to school there.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“And no more fights. I’m sick of the phone calls. Your principal is an irritating man.”

 

“Mouthbreather.”

 

“Level 5 Mouthbreather for sure. Go do your homework,” Becky murmured, kissing El on the forehead. 

 

El wrinkled her nose as she stepped back from her aunt’s embrace. “I did it on the bus. It was baby stuff.”

 

“Mmm. Well, go call Mike and tell him he’d better start learning to love sports if he wants to see you this summer.”

 

The girl’s face broke out in a wide grin, that revealed her slightly crooked teeth and made her dark eyes shine. She looked so much like Terry when she was young, so much that it made Becky’s heart ache. 

 

“Thank you, Aunt Becky.”

 

“You’re welcome.” Becky stumbled over her next words. They felt leaden and awkward on her mouth, and yet she was sincere. “I love you.”

 

El opened her mouth as though to reply, but then closed it and furrowed her brow, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she shrugged. It was the exact expression she used when concepts were foreign and confusing to her. “Th-thank you.” She turned and ran from the room and into the kitchen where snacks and the telephone were waiting.

 

**Nancy Wheeler**

 

It was a stupid idea, but Nancy - ever the supportive girlfriend - went along with it. Besides, how much trouble could they really get into? Graduation was close at hand and the Senior classes always got a little leeway, especially since a handful of them were already 18. Legal eagle in the adult world, save for drinking. Maybe she was just being too optimistic. They actually  _ could  _ get into a lot of trouble. 

 

Maybe not Steve, even though the Hawkins PD always seemed to have it out for him. He’d get probation, maybe some community service, but there was no stopping his trajectory into whatever school he wanted. The Harringtons got to go wherever they wanted, it was a rule. Nancy really didn’t have to worry either, her dad was a lawyer and a fairly good one. Not that her academic merit didn’t also speak volumes, it was just that being rich helped.

 

Jonathan was a different story. His scholarships hinged on good grades and exemplary behavior. Nancy, for her part, had helped him stay afloat in certain subjects, though he wasn’t exactly a slouch in the brains department. His math grades had been borderline dismal before she came along, though. That seemed to always be the way with creative types, she mused. 

 

Anyway, she hoped that maybe the party would be cancelled due to someone other than herself thinking about poor Jonathan and his future. Somehow, she doubted it. It seemed that, out of the three of them, she did the bulk of the thinking. Certainly more than Steve did.

 

She was about to open her bedroom window to sneak out into the night, when the door opened, giving her start.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

Mike. Ugh.

 

“Excuse me, have you forgotten how to knock all of a sudden? What if Steve was in here?”

 

Mike wrinkled his fine, patrician nose and wretched. “Ugh. And sorry, you left it open a little. I wanted help on my Algebra homework.”

 

“It’s Easter break, you dork; you have a long weekend to figure it out. Why don’t you call Lucas?”

 

Lucas Sinclair was taking advanced courses with Nancy. The kid was freakish with numbers, even more so than herself. 

 

“Lucas is a dick when he tries to explain things. He doesn’t get it that some people can’t get from Point A to Point B in two seconds.”

 

Nancy sighed and rolled her eyes. “Well, clearly I was about to step out. I’ll help you in the morning, how about that?”

 

“Okay.” Mike lingered in her doorway. 

 

Nancy shrugged and held up her hands impatiently. “Can I help you with anything else, Michael?”

 

Mike’s eyes fell to the floor. “No… El is coming back to Hawkins for the summer and I just wanted to tell someone.”

 

Nancy’s face broke into a wide grin and she crossed the room to hug her younger brother. “That’s awesome! I bet you’re excited after all of that moping around.” He did not return her embrace. Nancy stepped back and frowned, squinting at her brother as though to search for some sort of mysterious ailment evident on his pale face. “You’re excited, right? You’ve only been moping around the house over her from almost a year and a half now.

 

“What if she doesn’t like me anymore? You know… like the way Jonathan - I mean Steve likes you.”

 

Nancy narrowed her eyes and chose to ignore the name mix-up. “You mean because she goes to glamorous Absalom Middle School now and is probably up to her neck in invites from freakishly handsome guys?” She winced as Mike gave her a quick slap to the right arm, which she promptly returned, twice. “I’m just kidding. You need to relax and be yourself. She hasn’t known enough guys to know what a freak you are.”

 

“Ha ha. Now where are you going?”

 

“A party at Steve’s. Why else would I be leaving through my bedroom window?”

 

“That’s stupid. The Chief always busts those up.”

 

“Yeah, I know, Genius. I’m trying to be supportive because Steve and Jonathan are debuting their band tonight.”

 

“Sounds like a trainwreck. Can I come?”

 

Nancy gasped and she crossed her arms under her chest as she eyed up her brother with a quirked eyebrow. “What are the chances of you not ratting me out if I say no?”

 

“Slim to none.”

 

“You want to go because you think hanging out with Seniors will teach you how to be cool for El, don’t you?”

 

“No! … maybe.”

 

Nancy jerked her head towards the window, waving a beckoning hand towards her brother. “Well, come on then. Be careful climbing down and no drinking tonight.”

 

“Gross. Drinking is for losers.”

 

“Good boy.”

 

**Steve Harrington**

 

“Not cool, Nance,” Steve groaned when his girlfriend showed up at his door with her little brother.

 

“It’s fine, Steve. Mike’s cool,” Nancy reassured, pushing past him into the front room. 

 

“Is he though?” 

 

There ended up being a fairly decent turnout. A generous smattering of Juniors and Seniors. Even Tommy and Carol, who remarkably were on their best behavior. Tommy even came bearing gifts.

 

“You know that alcohol is linked to the most deaths in people under the age of 18, right?” Mike asked as Steve and Tommy worked at tapping the keg.

 

“I hear in Hawkins that it’s boredom and virginity,” Tommy jeered. Steve punched his former best friend in the chest at the snide remark. “Ow! Hey…”

 

“Shut the fuck up,” he hissed at Tommy. Turning to Mike he added, “That’s fascinating. Good thing we don’t have to worry about you giving into temptation here.”

 

Mike shook his head and frowned. “No, Nancy would kill me and it’s disgusting anyway. Dustin gave me one of his mom’s Zimas once.”

 

“Zima is for girls. Wanna try moonshine?” Tommy asked, which earned him another punch, this time in the upper arm. “Fuck!”

 

“No, he doesn’t. Hey buddy, why don’t you see if Sasha and Freddy need help setting up the equipment in the garage? Nance tells me you’re fairly good at that sort of junk.”

 

Mike nodded eagerly. “Yeah! I am. Dustin and Lucas and Will and I are thinking about starting a Weird Al cover band and we’ve actually gotten really-...”

 

“Okay, perfect. See you in ten minutes.”

 

“What a fucking dork.”

 

“You can leave if you don’t like the company. You don’t even like the music we play.”

 

“Yeah, because it’s gay.”

 

Steve felt the hot sting of anger shoot through his body at Tommy’s idiocy. He stood up abruptly, waving his hand in the general direction of the front entrance to his house. “Good talk. See you later.”

 

Tommy scoffed, but painstakingly picked up his keg and headed towards the door, bellowing for Carol as he hobbled away. “Come help me with this, we’re leaving!”

 

Carol walked into the kitchen with Nancy and Jonathan flanking either side of her. The trio appeared to have been enjoying good conversation, judging from the twinkle in their eyes. “You are, I guess. I’m actually having fun.”

 

“Oh come ON.”

 

“Stop being a dick and maybe you won’t keep getting kicked out of places,” Carol suggested with a casual shrug. Without missing a beat, she turned to Nancy and started back in on a story that Steve had not been able to catch the first part of. Something to do showing up to take her SATs a day early. She and Nancy walked away, leaving him and Jonathan alone.

 

“Boring conversation anyway,” Jonathan muttered by way of explanation.

 

“Same.”

 

“Are you ready for this?”

 

Steve blinked and felt his face flush. “Huh?” 

 

“They’re almost set up out there, are you ready?”

 

Steve cleared his throat and nodded a little too eagerly. “Oh yeah, for sure. Born ready.”

 

“Because you’re pitchy on ‘Alison’.”

 

“Thanks. I guess we’ll open with ‘Pump it Up’.”

 

“It’s got better energy anyway. No one really sticks around for the sad stuff.”

The pair walked together through the house and towards the door to the garage, discussing the line up. Steve had the strangest feeling that there was a change in the air. Something electric and wonderful, if not a little bit terrifying. The band was something special and Steve knew that they were about to knock the socks off of everyone.

 

**Bob Newby**

 

Everyone liked Bob Newby, and he knew it. Liked him. Looked on him with a fondness of water temperature in the middle of a pleasant bath, or a winsome rescue puppy that had no real promise of retaining cuteness in old age. Not someone you would bring up in conversation, whether the gossip be good or bad, but someone you would smile sweetly at if they showed up at a party unexpected. Not that he ever would. Bob was punctual and no party crasher.

 

It was nice to be liked by everyone. To be regarded as true blue, a real brick. Though, truth be told, he would have appreciated something a little deeper than tepid regard from his girlfriend, who smiled at him and kissed him sweetly but did not appear to be burning for him. Would have killed for a fraction of the hero worship her youngest son, Will, showed towards Jim Hopper - though, he completely understood why the boy thought the Chief of Police hung the moon. Jonathan didn’t appear to like anyone, so Bob wasn’t entirely bothered by the polite indifference from that one.

 

Bob often wracked his brain for ways to make himself a star in the Byers house. He had tried first - when he was in the early wooing stage with Joyce - to give the woman the Atari system that she had put on layaway for Christmas. That had only pricked her pride, and it took her over a month to speak to him voluntarily, and even longer for her to do so in a way that wasn’t curt and hurried. 

 

When they finally went on a date, and subsequently decided to make things official, he had decided to offer his help without actively seeking out opportunities to do so. Joyce seemed less offended by offers that came about naturally through conversation. 

 

_ Oh, your TV is making that noise again? Is it okay if I come by and look at it?  _

_ Sparks, huh? That microwave is really old, but it has some good parts. If you take it to me, I can salvage the good stuff and give you credit for a new model. _

 

Yes, he had done well with that approach. She kept him around, and in a sweet little way, he felt needed. More than being liked, Bob liked feeling needed. 

 

He was about to try something very bold. Summer was approaching, and the businesses in town were beginning to put together their Little League teams. Bob had decided to put considerable money into a team that had no name and no players as of yet. He was going to let Will pick the name, and he hoped the boy would want to recruit some friends. It didn’t matter that Will and his pals weren’t the sportiest of kids; Little League was just for fun. A bonding experience. Bob would be the inspirational and fun loving coach who took the kids out for pizza and arcade games after a loss. He assumed there would be losses. He didn’t really know how to coach sports. 

 

Anyway, this was going to be the time where he and Will really hit it off. Learned about each other; likes and dislikes. It would be great. Joyce would smile from the porch as the two of them played catch and plotted strategies. Maybe she’d come out to the lawn with some ice cold lemonade and say something sweet. Maybe she’d look at him the way he sometimes caught her looking at…

The Electricians. There was a name that had a nice ring.

 

It was a good idea. He was pretty sure this was one thing Hopper wouldn’t do for Joyce and her family, thank God. Rumor had it the man was a barely functional drunk nowadays, Bob shuddered to think of what a disaster it would be if someone like Jim Hopper was in charge of a group of kids. 

 

**Jim Hopper**

 

Jim was at the courthouse with the worst hangover of his life. The call had come early in the morning, requesting that he be present for Steve Harrington’s private sentencing. That rich little fucker. Throwing a party that had a middle school kid present, and he gets off with hush-hush proceedings and a probable slap on the wrist. Jim was probably getting called in to get intimidated by Harrington Sr., a pompous prick that Jim used to beat up on when they were in high school together. Chet Harrington had been an arrogant twerp then, and he was a powerful twerp now.

 

To his surprise, Chet apologized the moment Jim walked into Judge Reinhold’s office. “I’m real sorry to bring you here on such short notice, Chief. I had no idea that Steve held you in such high-esteem.”

 

Jim squinted and sucked in his lower lip. “What’s that now?”

 

“Have a seat, Chief Hopper,” the ancient judge requested, waving his hand at one of  two armchairs in front of desk. Steve was occupying the other, and smirking to himself. Jim could have smacked him. It had taken some considerable ‘looking the other way’ and distracting Powell and Callahan in order to give Jonathan, Nancy, and the other members of the band time to flee. Poor Mike Wheeler had fallen asleep in a chair by the pool, and Callahan had found him. Thank the heavens the kid had been as sober as a priest or there would have really been trouble. 

 

“We’ve all agreed that community service would be the best option for Mr. Harrington.”

 

“Did you bring me here just to tell me this?” Jim tried not to sound too grumpy in front of the judge. The man did deserve some respect after all. 

 

“Actually, yes. Mr. Harrington expressed admiration for you as a mentoring figure.”

 

_ No. _

 

“So it’s been decided that you and Mr. Harrington will work cooperatively to coach a Police Department sponsored Little League team.”

 

_ What. No no no no. _

 

“I think my secretary will be more than happy to tell you that sponsoring Little League is not in our budget.”

 

The judge nodded grimly, pushing his wire frame glasses up his bulbous nose. “Which is why Mr. Harrington’s father has offered a generous donation to the department. Two separate donations, actually. One to be added into the budget that will cover three new cruisers and raises, and one that should cover all of the expenses of said team.”

 

That slimy son-of-a-bitch had him by the balls. Powell and his wife just had a baby, and Jim couldn’t turn down such generosity and look himself in the mirror the next day. It was impossible.

 

He screwed on his best smile and mentally willed his eyes to light up. “Well, that’s just dandy.” Just fucking dandy. 

 

“Excellent,” Steve cooed from his chair, giving Jim a surreptitious middle finger when no one was looking. 


	3. Joycie C. Plays Ball

**Hawkins, Indiana**

 

**1957**

 

“Joycie, wait!” James Hopper shouted after his friend as she stormed off the field. 

 

  
“Let her go, son. She’ll calm herself down in a little while - besides, she wants you to chase her,” Coach Handel sneered as he walked down a line of boys, tapping them on the head and jerking his thumb alternately to the left or the right with each choice.

James was torn. It was tryouts. This was the only team in town. He loved baseball more than anything, and he just knew he was a beast at the bat. A real Casey Jones without the downer ending. 

 

But Joyce Calloway was better than him - better than every boy on the team, and Coach had laughed her off of the field just for showing up. He hadn’t so much as asked her to bat, pitch, or take her speciality position as shortstop. What was worse was that no one had stuck up for her. She had played ball with every single boy trying out - they knew how great she was - and everyone was fully prepared to let her get written off as… as a girl.

 

Fine. If it had to be done, it had to be done.

 

“You should just let her try!” Jim snapped, throwing his glove to the ground. 

 

“Get back in line, Jimmy, before I tell your father,” Coach threatened. He paused towards the end of the line and crossed his beefy arms over his chest. There were boys who had stopped running to the field and were frozen in place, eyes glued to the situation unfolding.

 

“I don’t want to play. Not unless you give Calloway a shot.” James glanced over his shoulder and smiled when he spotted Joyce standing astonished in the distance. She had only made it as far as the sidewalk before hearing her best friend’s announcement. He could see the shy smile pulling at the corners of her mouth and the begrudging admiration in her eyes.

 

“That’s okay, boy. Look at this turnout! The team will be able to live without the Police Chief’s son and his tomboy girlfriend. Now run along and teach her how to play dolls. Go on, get.”

 

James felt hot shame rage through his body, his ears ringing from the insult. He was in the process of kneeling down to pick up his glove, intent on hurling it at Coach’s head, when Benny Hammond spoke up from behind the mound.

 

“I don’t want to play, either. Joycie can wipe the floor with all of you, and you know it.” The large boy shucked off his catcher gear and ran over to James’s side. “Ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

 

“Now Benny, your dad’s restaurant sponsors the team, kiddo…” There was panic in Coach’s face. A wide-eyed, pale sort of reaction to the mounting mutiny.

 

“So does my dad’s law office!” Garner Hughes announced from the outfield. He was a weedy little brat, and not a great player, but his spot was more or less secured. He marched over to James and Benny with his chin in the air and took his place. Then the chanting erupted:

 

“Joycie C. plays ball! JOYCIE C. PLAYS BALL!” 

 

It was impossible to know who started it, but every boy joined in within moments. It didn’t matter if some of them were scandalized at the thought of a girl on the team, the spirit of rebellion had taken hold. Gloves and gear were tossed aside and the boys of Hawkins middle school stood side-by-side, demanding that little Joyce Calloway - abrasive, eccentric, and child of the town drunk - be included.

 

Joycie C. played ball that day.

 

**Hawkins, Indiana**

 

**1985**

 

**Becky Ives**

“Huh. I thought you’d at least have to try out,” Becky remarked as she and El arrived at the Hawkins Athletic field and took in their surroundings. There were tables set up along the fence around left field. Coaches from various businesses sat at the table with sign-up sheets in front of them.

 

“They used to, but Hopper said once the town got more than one team for summer league, they had to let everyone in. They don’t really play other towns,” El explained, her eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

 

“Oh look; there’s that Newby guy,” Becky pointed. “He was so nice the last time I saw him.”

 

“He helped save us.”

 

“That too. He’s kinda cute.”

Becky laughed as El wrinkled her nose and grimaced. She pulled her niece in for a side hug and kissed the top of her curly head. The child didn’t flinch.

 

“I hope you always feel that way about men, El. They’re garbage.”

 

“Not Mi-...”

 

“EL! ELEVEN!” A jubilant shout cut through the air, drawing the attention of just about everyone as Mike Wheeler pushed his way through the crowd, his destination clear to anyone who knew him. 

 

“Mike!” El broke away from Becky and ran towards the boy.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Becky sighed as she witnessed the tearful reunion. She wondered when it would be a good time to give her intelligent-but-naive niece ‘The Talk’. “This was supposed to be on you, Sis.”  She smiled politely when Mike’s parents walked up to talk to her. They seemed to be good people. By all accounts they were raising their kids right. Nothing to worry about on that account.

 

“Sorry about the scene, Mike’s been dreaming about this moment. He doesn’t even play softball, you know, but Ted’s been giving him a crash course so he and El can be on the same team,” Karen Wheeler explained as El and Mike walked hand-in-hand to the Hawkins P.D. booth. 

 

“She’s looked forward to it too,” Becky replied distractedly as she watched her niece approach Jim Hopper, former foster father. The older man sat stone-faced at his sign-up table and was sitting next to a cocky-looking teenage boy who appeared to be revelling in the Chief’s marked discomfort. A ghost of a smile graced his severe mouth when he spied the girl.

 

**Steve Harrington**

 

The Chief’s anger was delicious, Steve thought to himself, not for the first or even the tenth time that day. It served the old bastard right for going all Captain Ahab on Steve’s social life. Or was Chief the whale and Steve the Captain in the .... idiom? Analogy? Metaphor? Whatever. English was Nancy’s speciality, not his. The point was, Steve had finally managed to get the old man’s goat, and he hadn’t even rolled out the uniforms yet.

 

“I was thinking about team names, I guess-” Hopper began with a thick mumble that, when paired with the distinct aroma Schlitz, indicated a bit of a morning buzz.

 

“Oh, don’t worry about that. Me and my dad already ordered the uniforms,” Steve cut the older man off, almost unable to contain the mirth in his tone as he delivered the news. 

 

“Wonderful.”

 

“Don’t you want to know what we settled on?” Steve pressed on, the muscles in his cheeks aching from his grin.

 

“Something Smart Alecky, I’m sure,” Hopper replied before slumping in his seat with a belch. Steve suppressed a pang of concern at the sorry sight. There was no sport in egging on what was clearly an indifferent and broken man. The Hawkins P.D. Piggies was still a brilliant team name, even if Nancy had called him an idiot for spending his father’s money on getting the official uniforms ordered.

 

“Hopper!” 

 

Hopper straightened in his seat at the sound of his name, and Steve’s fleeting guilt dissolved at the sight of Mike and El approaching the table. He was fond of Mike, and seeing the younger boy’s transparent happiness and admiration for the girl at his side was touching, even to someone as cynical as himself.

 

“Hey, kid!” Hopper greeted with a grin, his bleary blue eyes suddenly alert and shining in El’s presence. Steve had almost forgot about Hopper being the girl’s foster dad at one point, and it suddenly occurred to him that the man may have gotten attached to El in that short period of time. This bit of revelation also gave Steve’s conscience a reason to smite him.

 

“I want to play softball - so does Mike,” El stated flatly. Mike just blushed and mumbled in agreement. 

 

“Oh yeah? They teach you how to write your name in that fancy new school of yours?” Hopper asked, his usually gruff voice soft and teasing.

 

“Yes.”

 

The older man pushed the sign-up sheet in front of El and Mike. “You kids just put your John Hancock on the sheet.”

 

“Welcome to the Hawkins P.D. Piggies,” Steve added with a smirk. Guilt or no, it  _ was  _ funny. Mike made a soft sound of disgust, but El stood unblinking at the name of her team.

 

“Perfect,” Hopper ground out through his welcoming smile.

 

“I thought so,” Steve replied. He waved when he spotted Jonathan helping Bob and Joyce set up the table for Bob’s team. “I wonder who Newby will get now that Mike’s on our team. He’s kind of the ringleader of the dweebs.”

 

“Hey!” The Dweeb in Question shouted in protest.

 

“What is a ‘dweeb’?” El inquired, her brow knit in confusion.

 

“A born leader,” Hopper informed her, shooting a glare at Steve, who shrugged and returned the look with wide, innocent eyes. 

 

Lucas and Dustin came running up to Hopper and Steve’s table, which answered Steve’s question pretty definitively. The four friends exchanged greetings and hugs with El before they set to the task of putting their names down on the list. 

 

“All we need is Will,” Steve joked. Hopper frowned at the mention of the boy’s name and cast a quick glance in the direction of Newby’s table.

 

“I think he’s spoken for,” Hopper mumbled. Steve detected a hint of bitterness, and wondered if it was over Will or someone else entirely. 

 

Sure enough, Steve spotted Will a few moments later, carrying a clipboard and a sign that read ‘The Radio Shack Rocketeers’. The boy handed the clipboard to Bob and helped Jonathan tape the sign to the table before the two of them made their way to Hopper and Steve’s booth. 

 

“Hey Chief!” Will greeted with a wide grin. “Hi, guys - El,” he added, waving to Steve and his friends. 

 

“You're going to be our nemesis, huh?” Lucas asked in a teasing tone.

 

“Huh?”

 

Steve jerked his head towards Bob’s table. “Loyalty, little man. You kinda have to sign up for your stepdad’s team.”

 

“They aren't married,” Hopper sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. “But go where you want, Kid. You aren’t going to hurt my feelings.” 

 

Will’s eyes widened and he heaved a weary sigh as he looked towards Bob’s booth. Both Joyce and her boyfriend noticed and waved at the group. Joyce’s eyebrows were raised and Steve caught her subtle finger crook.  Will turned back towards Hopper and his friends - Steve swore the boy looked several shades paler than it had a moment ago. He was one conflicted kid. 

 

“You won't have any time for us if we're practicing on two different teams,” Dustin argued. 

 

“And I see Troy and his goons walking over to Bob’s group,” Mike added. 

 

That clinched it. Will signed his name on the sheet, and Steve caught the corners of Hopper’s mouth perking up for a millisecond before he resumed his usual dour expression. 

 

“Welcome to the team, Byers.” Steve took Will’s right hand and gave it an enthusiastic shake. 

 

**Bob Newby**

 

“Oh. He’s signing up for Hop’s team,” Bob remarked faintly as he watched Joyce’s youngest son write his name on Hopper’s list. 

 

“I think he’s following the crowd on this one, Bob. I don’t blame him; those are his friends and the boys that just signed up for your team are little assholes,” Joyce replied, reaching under the table to give his knee a sympathetic pat.

 

“You can’t say that about kids.” Bob was mildly shocked but more than a little amused.

 

“She can about those kids. They’re fucking monsters,” Jonathan mumbled, running a finger over the primitively etched signatures on the sign-up page. “They give my brother and his friends so much hell. Good luck with them.”

“Thanks, Jon, that’s very reassuring.”

 

Bob noted the subtle wince Jonathan made when he used the shortened version of the young man’s name, but if it truly bothered him, he didn’t say. He made a mental note to never use that particular moniker again. It went on the same list as ‘William’ and ‘Joycie’. 

 

“He still likes you, Bob. You know how kids are, though.”

 

“I know… you still like me too, right?” Bob was joking but he sometimes had his doubts.

 

“Of course,” Joyce finally admitted, leaning over to give him a quick peck on the check. The hesitance in her responses never failed to make his stomach drop unpleasantly.

 

An hour passed, giving ample time for signing up and mingling. Bob soon had a full roster, as did Hopper, by the looks of it. A few of the other coaches rolled in coolers filled with booze and beer, soon a friendly game of softball was proposed. Bob felt a surge of pride when he was picked as a team captain. Hopper seemed indifferent to his designation.

 

“Pick a good line-up,” Joyce ordered with one of her gentle, mocking smiles. 

 

“I won’t let you down,” Bob reassured her as he left the table to take his place in front of the gathering crowd.

 

“May the best man win,” Hopper announced, taking Bob’s hand in a death grip.

 

“It’s just a friendly match, no pressure.”

 

He and Hopper stood nearly shoulder to shoulder as they surveyed the gathering of adults in front of them. Bob, despite his assurance to the contrary, felt immense pressure to put together the right combination. He so badly wanted to be on the receiving end of Joyce’s hard-won pride and awe. It was so hard to know where he stood with her sometimes, but a win against Jim Hopper, town hero, would definitely earn him some points in her eyes, of this he was certain. Still, who to pick?

 

“You go first,” Bob offered, suddenly paralyzed with indecision. He shifted his weight anxiously as Hopper scanned the group with an inscrutable expression. 

 

“Joycie!” Hopper announced. Bob was momentarily befuddled. Was he calling on her to help with the decision? The idea irked him. If anyone should be asking for Joyce’s counsel it was him. Furthermore, who did Hopper think he was, using  _ that  _ nickname? Joyce hated, HATED being called ‘Joycie’.

 

“What do you want, Hop?” Joyce called back, crossing her arms over her chest, one dark eyebrow raised and an amused smile quirking one corner of her mouth. She didn’t appear annoyed, however.

 

“You. As my shortstop.”


End file.
